


I Wish We Met Before

by sapphose



Series: Terok Nor AU [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Exile Julian, Alternate Universe - Terok Nor, Dabo boy Julian AU, Exile Julian AU, Gen, Occupation of Bajor, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Terok Nor (Star Trek), Terok Nor AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27177451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphose/pseuds/sapphose
Summary: Julian, on the run from the Federation, finds himself on Terok Nor. Out of options, he takes a job as a dabo boy in Quark's, meets a mysterious tailor named Garak, and gets drawn into the ongoing conflict of the Occupation.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: Terok Nor AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995967
Comments: 108
Kudos: 124





	1. Everyone Comes to Quark’s

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed a few people in the comments of my fic "Why Wait" saying that Julian dressed as a dabo boy had stood out to them, so I decided to see what else I could do with the idea!
> 
> (The title does come from a song lyric from the musical Heathers, because I've lost all ability to come up with original titles at this point.)

Quark was not having a good day. (Good, of course, being synonymous with lucrative.) One of Dukat’s bosses had arrived on the station, and while normally special guests were good for business, this one seemed to be putting everyone in a bad mood. It would be one thing if it was the drink-away-your-sorrows kind of bad mood (Quark specialized in those), but no, it had to be an avoid-the-bar kind of bad mood. The worst kind.

All in all, the situation was unprofitable enough without this scrawny human making a mess of things. Since when did humans come out to Terok Nor, anyways? Quark could have sworn that the Federation and the Cardassians were still at war. (The Cardassian side of things, he watched observantly. War- and peace- were good for business, after all. The Federation side of things he didn’t bother to keep track of. No currency, no use.)

“I did not cheat,” the human was insisting, as if that made a difference. (If you could get out of trouble just by saying _I didn’t do it_ , Quark would never have to deal with Odo again.)

“Sure you didn’t. What is it, a gravimetric scanner?” He looked up at the human scathingly. That was another affront; the human was too damn tall. (Rule of Acquisition #53- never trust anybody taller than you.)

“No, I’m just very good at the game.”

Quark leaned across the bar.

“No one is that good at dabo. Now, either agree to leave the latinum or I’ll have to call security.”

Quark had a strict anti-security policy most of the time, but he was not above using Odo as an enforcer if his latinum was endangered.

“I won it fairly,” the human argued.

Impossible. If Quark had wanted a game people could win fairly, he would have put in dom-jot tables.

“You cheated, and that’s exactly what I’ll tell Odo.” Quark tried to calculate how likely this was to escalate. Humans were prone to drinking synthehol and liked to pretend that they didn’t have sex in the holosuites, that was about all Quark knew of them. Nothing to indicate how likely they might be to throw a punch. Or a chair. Or pull a knife.

(Klingons were liable to do all three.)

“And I suppose he knows you rig the wheel?” the human asked hotly.

Odo strongly suspected, of course, but know and suspect were two very different things (luckily for Quark).

“Quark’s Bar, Grill, Gaming House, and Holosuite Arcade does no such thing,” Quark lied. (Rule of Acquisition #60- keep your lies consistent.)

“The girls control the spin. It’s all about angle and speed.”

He had to hand it to the human, people didn’t usually catch that the girls were involved. They blamed the Ferengi waiters or the slant of the floor, too charmed to suspect that the dazzling dabo girls were in on the hustle.

“That is an outrageous and untrue accusation.” Quark made a show of being affronted, and wondered if he should send Nog out onto the Promenade to find Odo. The only thing worse than someone else cheating you was getting caught cheating yourself.

“I’ll show you. I guarantee I can spin dabo on my first try,” the human promised.

“No one but a Quark’s employee can touch the wheel.” Not that it would cause any harm- it took everyone time to learn how to spin it just right for the result you wanted. The human wouldn’t magically pick up the strategy, even if he had figured out that there was one.

“Are you going to let me keep the latinum?”

“Not a chance.” (Rule of Acquisition #1- once you have their money, you never give it back.)

“Then I’ll have to demonstrate that you are clearly cheating every patron here. I’m sure there are a number of guls who wouldn’t be happy to hear it.”

Rule of Acquisition #203 sprang immediately to mind: new customers are like razor-toothed gree-worms; they can be succulent, but sometimes they bite back.

This one was biting, all right. And people thought Ferengi were troublemakers.

“You want to try it? Fine. You spin triple down dabo, I’ll let you keep the latinum.”

“Deal.” The human turned on his heel and stalked over to the wheel.

Etana, the Ktarian, was on duty. The human spoke to her in a low voice, and she glanced over at Quark, who communicated his acquiescence with a quick nod. The sooner this was over with, the better.

The human placed his hand on the wheel. Now would be the first spin…

“Quark! Get me an ale.”

It figured. Quark smiled toothily and turned to the customer. He liked Boheeka (which was to say, he liked Boheeka’s salary), but the Cardassian had no sense of timing.

“Boheeka, it’s been too long. Hartla’s been beside herself with you gone.”

Boheeka laughed heartily. He knew affection from a dabo girl only lasted as long as the latinum, and he didn’t begrudge her that. It was another quality of his that Quark appreciated.

“I’m sure she has, but business on Prime waits for no glinn. I see you’ve redecorated since I’ve been gone.” He looked meaningfully at the dabo wheel.

Quark followed Boheeka’s eyes to the human… and his lobes began to tingle.

“Do you like what you see?” he asked carefully, holding out the drink.

“I think I do, Quark.” Boheeka took the proffered ale without shifting his gaze. “I’ll be shipping out again at the end of the week, but I plan to enjoy your amenities until then.”

From the table rose a familiar cry.

“Dabo!”

Quark glanced over, and the human smiled back at him, raising three fingers in the air.

Rule of Acquisition #9- opportunity plus instinct equals profit.

The human could spin the wheel. Boheeka was interested, at least for the week. Others might be as well; Cardassians were secretly prodigious xenophiles.

Maybe the day wouldn’t be so unprofitable after all.

When the human returned, looking triumphant, Quark had a proposition.

“How long are you going to be on the station?”

“Long enough to get enough latinum for shuttle fare,” the human answered pointedly, looking to reopen the conversation about his winnings (honestly gotten or not).

Quark seized the opportunity.

“How would you like a job? One week only. I’m in the market for a new dabo boy.”


	2. Garak's Clothiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian makes a choice, and meets an unusual shopkeeper

Julian was not an idiot. He saw that the Ferengi had wanted him out, then had talked to a Cardassian, and was now salivating to keep him in. There was something going on.

“Are you offering because of him?” Julian asked, jerking his thumb to indicate the man in question. He was a military officer, most likely, but the uniforms all looked the same to an uneducated outsider.

“Why, does that change your answer?” Quark asked quickly.

Did it? Julian wasn’t sure.

Gambling had been his first, best, and only plan to get enough latinum for shuttle fare. If Quark didn’t pay up, then he would be stranded on the station without a cent to his name. Being a Federation fugitive did not exactly pay, and Julian routinely bought at least three seats on different vessels in order to cover his tracks. It made him harder to follow, but it was also an impossibly expensive practice to maintain.

Dabo boy wasn’t the most dignified of professions, but what would be involved? Spinning the wheel and getting ogled? Julian could handle that. It had only taken him a few hours of watching and pretending to focus on his drink in order to work out the mathematical mechanics, and he was reasonably sure he could cheat the spin as well as a professional. Being ogled, well, he had his fair share of experience with that. As long as more wasn’t expected…

“I won’t sleep with him,” Julian warned. Best to get that out of the way immediately. He had heard more than enough about how Cardassians treated alien lovers, and did not want to experience it firsthand, no matter how much money was involved.

“Who asked you to? I mean, sure, you shouldn’t go outright and tell him that, but I don’t pay overtime. What you do when you leave the bar is your own business.”

Quark was not honest, Julian was fairly certain, but he was at least direct. The part about not paying overtime was certainly the truth.

One week. One week where he knew he’d have enough money to buy food and a ticket to the next hiding spot. If it weren’t a dark, hazy Cardassian station crawling with military personnel and exploited Bajorans, it would have been too good to be true.

Once, he would have refused. In the beginning of his exile, he had been angry. That anger was necessary; it fueled him. He left the planet powered by a warp core of fury, with no greater destination than _away from here_. But it was a double-edged sword, consuming him as it fed him. Now, the running had left him empty and exhausted, feeling much older than he really was.

A week of some kind of security was not to be undervalued.

“Deal,” Julian said. “But I’m reading the contract before I sign it.”

Ferengi, he had learned, needed that stated explicitly, and often.

Quark did not seem to be one to wait. He snatched a thumbprint scanner from under the counter, announced that they could negotiate on the way, and was in motion before Julian had time to ask where they were going.

On the way out, he did hear Quark ordering, “Rom, watch the bar!”

And then, in a quieter mutter, “Gorta, watch Rom.”

Their destination was an unmarked shop on the Promenade, doors tightly closed. This did not deter Quark from banging on them and shouting.

“Garak, it’s Quark! Open up, I’ve got a tailoring emergency!”

A tailor, then. One who either kept their shop closed regularly, or only when they saw Quark coming. If it was the latter, Julian wouldn’t blame them.

When the door finally opened, it was a stocky Cardassian man whose smile was just a little too tight in the corners. He certainly did not look thrilled at the visitors.

“Quark, what an _unexpected_ surprise,” he said, with a light aftertaste of menace. Quark didn’t seem to notice.

“I need a dabo outfit. For him. I need it by tomorrow, and I’m willing to pay whatever rush fee you have.”

The Cardassian (Garak?) barely looked at Julian, but the mention of a rush fee seemed to get his attention.

“Why don’t you come in and tell me more?”

He stood with an arm outstretched, ushering Julian and Quark inside. Julian noticed that the door automatically closed behind them. The other shops he had seen on the Promenade remained open until a gate was drawn.

“Something exciting,” Quark was describing, with clumsy hand gestures. “Something that draws the eye and keeps it there.”

And away from the game, Julian assumed. He had heard the familiar saying, _watch the wheel, not the girl_.

“I see.” Garak looked over Julian, with a much more lingering, critical gaze this time. “Wherever did you get a human?”

Quark smirked.

“Why, do you want one?”

Garak’s stare was already making Julian feel like a meal being appraised before consumption, and Quark’s attitude did not help matters.

“I’m not for sale,” he objected firmly. He would not allow Quark to get- or give- the wrong impression.

Garak smiled blandly.

“Of course not. I hope I haven’t offended you, Mister…”

Julian had come to this station as Mohammed El Tahir, and the stop before that as Peter Winston. Another name change was in order, as he never arrived and departed under the same pseudonym, but he had not yet decided on a new one. (He had long ago run through the usable names in James Bond.)

The Cardassian was watching him with inscrutable closeness. He’d already hesitated too long, and he had an odd sensation that Garak would somehow be able to see through the lie. His clear blue eyes had a knowing look that gave Julian’s stomach an odd, bottomless sort of feeling.

“Julian,” he said, stupidly. “It’s just Julian.”

“Julian,” Garak repeated, and something about him seemed to thaw slightly. “Welcome to Terok Nor.”

His tone was ironic. Julian imagined it was because Terok Nor was a place that nobody in the universe but Cardassians (and perhaps Quark) truly felt welcome.

Garak turned to Quark.

“I’ll to need to take measurements, if I’m going to make him look exciting. Any particular audience in mind?”

“Cardassian,” Quark said. “Now about that rush fee…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mohammed El Tahir is pulled from elements of the birth name of Alexander Siddig (Julian's actor): Siddig El Tahir El Fadil El Siddig Abdurrahman Mohammed Ahmed Abdel Karim El Mahdi


	3. Book Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak goes to Quark's, and somehow winds up discussing "The Never-Ending Sacrifice"

No one on the station actually went to Garak for tailoring.

Who would? The officers primarily wore their uniforms. The bulk of new clothing created was made for the Bajoran comfort women, and Dukat would commit murder sooner than ask Garak for anything. Their truce was uneasy and fizzled conveniently out of existence whenever one of them thought he had identified an opportunity to dispose of the other.

The lack of customers did not bother Garak. After all, it wasn’t as if he needed the leks. He only needed an excuse to to be on Terok Nor and plausible deniability, and the shop provided it.

If it had just been the Ferengi bartender, Garak would have turned him away without hesitation. But the human…

Garak had seen images of humans before, and had never found them particularly appealing. They looked like dozens of other humanoid species in the quadrant, but _less_. Less ears than a Vulcan, less forehead than a Klingon, less nose than a Bajoran. Next to a Cardassian, they seemed bare and sparse.

Julian, however, quickly had Garak rethinking that opinion. He was approximately two-thirds leg, with hazel eyes, tousled dark hair that curled in a way Cardassian hair never did, and an expressive mouth that brought to mind all sorts of ideas. Ideas which Garak was welcome to entertain, since it became clear that his charge was to attire that lovely body as scandalously as possible.

As a rule, Garak did not frequent Quark’s establishment. It was noisy, vulgar, and populated by the guls and glinns who either didn’t know who Garak was, or knew and hated him for it. There was no reason for Garak to come at all.

But the human…

The mystery of who Quark had been aiming Julian at was swiftly and boringly revealed. The target appeared to be Setok Boheeka, a strategically unimportant official who was notable only for his utter lack of distinguishing features, aside from a weakness for aliens spinning dabo wheels in Quark’s. Anyone with ambition would be dismayed to still be a glinn at his age, but Boheeka distinctly lacked not only ambition but also any other quality that might have made him worthy of Garak’s attention.

Quark’s motive was also clear. Profit, predictably. Ferengi had no sense of subtlety.

Over the edge of the PADD he was ostensibly reading, Garak cast glances onto the lower level, admiring the way the outfit he had created showcased Julian’s clavicles, the closest he had to ridges. Garak would not have expected how beautiful that smooth, brown skin looked, especially against the shimmery, sheer fabric Garak had used to create the shirt.

It was an indulgence to sit and stare like that. A shade hypocritical, as well, given that Garak had scoffed countless times at Dukat’s shameless predilections. But unwise did not necessarily mean harmful, and there was still the intriguing mystery of what a human was doing around Cardassia-occupied Bajor in the first place. Commonplace vagabond, exile, or spy?

Garak rather doubted that he was an intelligence agent. For one thing, they usually had cover stories, and they did not stand there blushing and blinking when asked for a name.

Boheeka did not seem in the least suspicious that a handsome human had miraculously materialized. He laughed and smiled with too much teeth, and Julian did the same. They fawned insincerely at each other across the wheel. It was repulsive, and yet Garak couldn’t seem to stop watching.

The Ktarian came and relieved Julian at the wheel, but that did not mean his shift was over. The primary duty of a dabo spinner was to distract patrons into losing, of course, but Quark also had them act as servers during busy hours.

In this case, as far as Garak could see, server was code for professional flirt. Julian and a Boslic woman with lavender hair theoretically were delivering drinks, but they mainly were responsible for inspiring customers to linger.

Boheeka moved from the wheel to a table, and beckoned Julian over. Julian complied, still with a stiff, wide smile.

Garak watched as Boheeka encouraged Julian to sit and ordered two glasses of kanar from one of the Ferengi waiters. Boheeka was talking animatedly, but Julian’s smile was beginning to grow brittle. He was sitting back in his seat, pressed against the back of the chair, almost as far away from the Cardassian as he could manage without getting up.

Garak reminded himself that it did not matter, and he did not care. He had been well-trained since childhood that sentiment was a weakness, and those who couldn’t protect themselves deserved their fate.

Still, he found himself a touch concerned for the human. What was Boheeka saying?

Boheeka made a few emphatic hand gestures, and Julian tentatively sipped the kanar, before breaking off in a coughing fit. Boheeka laughed heartily.

Garak’s face creased with a frown. Kanar shouldn’t be introduced to other species without proper warning first. ( _Not that he cared_ , he reminded himself.)

Julian’s eyes had started to dart around the bar. For a split second, they landed on Garak.

Garak immediately looked down at his PADD, and willed his gaze to focus in on the familiar words.

He did not allow himself to glance up again, but he did not need to. With the senses of a professional who had survived numerous attempts on his life, Garak felt the human’s approach.

“Hello, Garak!”

If Julian was going to attempt to wheedle Garak into buying a drink, he would be sorely disappointed. Still, it wouldn’t do to be impolite. Garak looked up and affected an air of surprise.

“Julian, good evening.”

Julian held his arms outstretched like wings.

“What do you think? Am I doing your work justice?”

The clothing was well-made, but it was Julian’s own startling beauty that drew the eye. Garak was careful not to look as appreciative of the view as he felt.

“I’m not the audience you need to please, am I?” Garak deflected. “Are you exciting the Cardassians you were supposed to?”

Julian’s eyes flickered down to the lower level, then back up to Garak.

“Quark’s words, not mine. What are you reading?”

An obvious attempt to avoid the topic of Boheeka. Garak parried back.

“It’s a Cardassian classic, but I doubt you have the time to hear about it while you’re working. What will your new employer think?”

“I’m on break,” Julian said definitively. “If Quark wants to tell me what to do during it, he can pay me for it.”

“It’s called _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_ , but it may not be of interest to an off-worlder,” Garak said, as if they were in a cafe on Prime instead of a seedy bar orbiting Bajor. “I don’t know how it compares to Earth literature. Isn’t that where you’re from?”

“I like learning about other cultures,” Julian said, side-stepping the question, then glanced down to the lower level again. “May I join you?”

It did not escape Garak’s notice that he was rather obviously being used to escape the attentions of Boheeka, but it gave him a chance to dig for more information, so he nodded as invitingly as he could.

“It’s always a pleasure to discuss literature with a new acquaintance,” he said. “ _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_ is a masterpiece of the repetitive epic form.”

Julian raised his eyebrows.

“Repetitive epic? The genre is designed to be repetitive?”

“Of course. It’s used to impart enduring lessons. This particular novel chronicles generations in a family who all live their lives in noble service to the state.”

In reality, Garak was not reading _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_. He was reading a volume of poetry by Taya Moran, but saw no reason to give such revealing information to a stranger.

Julian did not look convinced by Garak’s enthusiasm.

“I hope it’s more interesting than it sounds,” he said bluntly. “Doesn’t that get boring?”

If Julian were a Cardassian, that might have been the beginning of a romantic overture. Coming from a human, it may just have been rude. Garak decided to take the question neutrally.

“I don’t know how a human would find it. You’d have to read it for yourself.”

Garak expected a polite refusal ( _well, every culture is different_ or _I would, if only I had the time_ ) and a change of subject. Instead, Julian brightened and sat up straighter in his chair.

“Could I? Is there a translation?”

“I could try and find you one,” Garak responded, thoroughly taken aback.

“That would be very kind of you. I haven’t had anything new to read in ages.” Garak realized that this was the first time he had seen Julian excited.

The light in his eyes made him even more appealing. (A dangerous thought.)

Julian looked over the railing, then turned back with a dimmed, sour expression.

“My break’s over,” he said. “Do you think we could meet- maybe tomorrow? For lunch? If you’d have time to find a translation by then, of course.”

Garak knew perfectly well that there was no existing Federation Standard translation of _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_ , but there was a computer with a robust linguistics database and he fully intended to use it. If the human were hiding something, opportunities for further investigation could not be ignored.

“I’d be delighted,” Garak said, and found that he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this art of Julian and Garak talking in Quark's! https://evstrrratt.tumblr.com/post/642131195539456000/im-very-slowly-proceeding-with-garashir-prompt


	4. The Promenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in Quark's may be fun and games, but the reality of the Occupation is never far away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a physical altercation in this chapter. I did not think it was enough to merit the "graphic description" tag, but be advised there is some violence.

Books cost money.

It sounded obvious, when said aloud, but Julian had never considered it. Food, he understood. Clothing, that was a given. Shelter, he had wrapped his mind around. But never, in all of his planning, had Julian considered that people bought and sold books. Why would they? When data was stored digitally, why charge for something it cost nothing to keep and maintain?

He never had any money to spare, so he never had anything to read. Perhaps it was a silly thing to yearn for, with so much uncertainty and danger, and much more pressing, life-sustaining needs to worry about. Yet Julian couldn’t help himself. He missed reading.

That was why he jumped at the chance for a new novel, even one that sounded like a staggeringly dull piece of propaganda. It hadn’t occurred to him, in his excitement, to ask what Garak would want in return.

He had to want something. Julian had learned the hard way that nothing was free, even in the Federation.

The door to the tailor shop was closed again. Julian had asked Hartla and Etana, who let him sleep on the couch in the quarters they shared, and they had known almost nothing about Garak. Nobody ever seemed to go into his shop, but he made rent somehow.

They did say there was some kind of rumor about Garak and Dukat, that they couldn’t stand each other, but that might have been idle gossip. People liked to gossip about Dukat.

Julian steeled his nerves and hit the door chime.

“Hello?” he called tentatively. “It’s Julian.”

Garak answered much more quickly than he had for Quark yesterday. To be fair, Julian wasn’t sure he would want to interact with Quark more than he had to either.

“A pleasure to see you, Julian. I’m glad to see Quark could spare you to brighten up my lunch hour.” Compared to yesterday’s greeting, Garak was positively effusive. Julian could feel his face warming a little from the attention.

“I don’t start my shift until later in the day,” he explained.

“I do have _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_ , as promised.” Garak produced a slim red isolinear rod. “However, I used an automatic translator, so it is probably full of egregious errors.”

“Thank you for doing that for me.” Julian does not miss the fact hiding in the deprecation; Garak had this specially made for him. “What do I owe you for it?”

Garak looked at him. Julian got that strange bottomless feeling in his stomach again, as if Garak was peering into his soul. As if Garak was _seeing_ him.

“Tell me what you think once you’ve finished, and we’ll call it even.”

“That’s it? You just want me to tell you what I think of it?”

Garak smiled mysteriously.

“Don’t underestimate the extent to which we Cardassians appreciate a good literary discussion.”

Was that a euphemism? Julian couldn’t quite tell, and did not care to find out. He had ended the last evening in Boheeka’s lap, and was not in the mood to fend off more amorous attentions.

On the other hand, and unexpectedly for a people notorious for their deceptive, covert military strategies, the Cardassians Julian had met so far were extremely unsubtle in their expressions of sexual interest in him. Perhaps it was because humans, like Bajorans, were considered to be an inferior species.

If that was the case, did Garak believe him to be inferior?

Julian reminded himself that he was only here for a week, and it didn’t matter what Garak thought. He took the datarod and slipped it into his pocket with another quick round of thanks.

“Have you eaten?” Garak inquired politely.

Julian shook his head. Personal replicators were a luxury reserved for officers’ quarters, and he had not wanted to return to Quark’s before his shift, mindful of the kind of attention he seemed to attract there.

“Does your interest in other cultures extend to their cuisine? I can recommend a few dishes.”

“I’d like that.” Julian would take any possibility to mooch a meal.

“Just let me lock up here.” Garak turned and began entering a code into the keypad by the door. “Is there an Earth dish you would recommend to me? As fair exchange.”

“I’m sure the replicators don’t have any.”

“No,” Garak agreed. “But I would be interested all the same.”

Julian had many fond memories of having a full belly, but mealtimes themselves had been tense affairs in the Bashir household for many years. He and his father glared angrily at each other, either shouting or sulking, while his mother tried to maintain cheerfulness. She liked cooking, and for her it was a multicultural process that included both full English breakfasts and goraasa be dama for dinner.

“What do Cardassians like? I wouldn’t want to recommend something you can’t eat.”

The conversation continued around food as they passed through the Promenade. Garak seemed oblivious to the soldiers with heavy phaser rifles patrolling the upper level bridges, but it made Julian uneasy and uncomfortable. He hunched over as he walked, trying to seem inconspicuous. The guards sometimes pulled civilians aside for random interrogations or background checks, and he wasn’t sure his forged papers would hold up under scrutiny.

When he looked up at the soldiers, their eyes weren’t on him. Instead, they all seemed focused on some point further ahead. Julian followed their gazes to a handful of Bajorans, clustered tightly together. They were probably part of the same work unit.

Looking at the skin inflammation, the sores, and the patches where their hair was thinning or falling out, Julian clenched his fists. If they hadn’t been exposed to intense levels of radiation, he was a Khobeerian.

The Cardassians had anti-radiation protective equipment. They were a technologically advanced species. There was no reason to put the Bajorans in so much danger.

One stood slightly apart from the others. Julian recognized him from the day before, a fair-haired man with a scruffy beard who had been tasked with cleaning in Quark’s.

He was thin and malnourished, but he did not have the same distinctive symptoms as the others. He was not part of their group.

Julian was not the only one to notice. Three Cardassians were veering towards him.

A pressure on Julian’s arm made him jump, but when he looked down it was just Garak.

“Best to keep moving,” Garak murmured. Julian realized that he had stopped walking at some point.

The Cardassian soldiers converged on the Bajorans. A stocky one with with a jutting chin appeared to be leading the pack.

“Passes,” he demanded curtly. The knot of exhausted workers reached into pockets and satchels and pulled out what looked to Julian like round computer chips.

“You too,” the tallest Cardassian of the trio ordered. The light-haired man said something Julian couldn’t hear, and the Cardassians sneered.

“What are you doing outside of the Bajoran quarter?”

That was the euphemistic term for the overcrowded area locked by gates and patrolled by armed security guards. Julian unthinkingly took a half-step forward, and Garak’s grip on his arm tightened.

He knew what was about to happen. The people around them had also stilled, watching.

Waiting.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. One of the Cardassians raised his rifle, and Julian could already see where the blow would fall, how the butt of the gun would strike into the Bajoran’s head.

He was moving before he fully knew what he was doing. Garak was saying something, but he couldn’t hear what. Everything sounded dull, muffled.

The Bajoran reeled from the force of the blow, and another of the soldiers shoved, hastening his descent to the ground.

“Let him go!” Julian’s voice was too loud in his own ears. He surged through the frozen crowd. “Leave him alone!”

An iron grip captured his neck, and he had no time to think about how strong a human should be. Julian wrenched free from his captor and tackled the one kicking the prone man.

“You little-”

“Careful.” Garak’s voice came up behind them. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Oddly, the soldier listened to that. He scowled and stared, but did not move. Julian took advantage of the opportunity to scramble over to the Bajoran on the ground, ready to examine.

“I’m here to help you,” he said quietly, to eyes wide with fear.

Above him, Garak said, “Don’t you have other duties you should be attending to?”

“But-” the tall one began.

“Shut up,” the leader interrupted him. He looked Garak up once and down, squinting. For a moment, Julian thought he might hit Garak. Instead, he began to walk away. The tall one followed, and finally the silent one as well.

Julian exhaled slowly when they left. He felt as if he had been holding his breath for the past five minutes.

“Who are you?” the man on the floor asked hoarsely.

“My name is Julian. I’m here to help,” Julian reiterated. “Is there a doctor on the station?”

“Not for Bajorans.”

Julian gritted his teeth.

“I can look you over, then. At the very least, I want to make sure you don’t have a concussion. Is there somewhere I can take you? They might come back.”

“Community quarters.”

“Right.” Julian nodded. “Let’s go.”

He leaned down and helped ease the man into a sitting position, then had the Bajoran place an arm around his shoulders.

It was only after they stood that Julian realized Garak had melted away into the crowd, nowhere to be seen.

The man’s name, Julian learned, was Ornak. The rest of the group of Bajorans had clearly spread the word of what happened, as a red-haired woman with enormous dark eyes approached them the second they were on the Bajoran side of the fence.

“Did you really punch a glinn?” she asked skeptically.

Julian wondered how long it would take them to throw him off the station. Probably a matter of hours now.

“No, but I did sort of run into him. At him.” Hitting him might have made more sense, in retrospect, but Julian had not been thinking clearly.

The woman furrowed her brow for a moment, as if deciding what to make of him, and then seemed to come to some kind of decision.

“My name is Kira,” she said. “What’s yours?”


	5. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak contemplates making unwise choices

Tain knew.

Tain always knew.

When Garak was a child, if he played where he was not supposed to, or spoke to someone he was not supposed to, or did not do his chores when he was supposed to, Tain knew instantly. That knowledge translated to punishment.

Years ago, the punishment had been the closet. Now, it took other forms. Being stuck on Terok Nor, babysitting an egomaniac like Dukat, was punishment.

Garak was not surprised when the call came in over subspace. He had been expecting it.

“Ah, Elim!” Avuncular as ever, cruel joke that it was. “I’ve had three different legates baying for your blood, you know.”

That was a covert command- _tell me why I shouldn’t let them kill you_.

“If you had let me invent treason charges for Porania, it would have been only two,” Garak replied.

He did not grovel well. It was one of the reasons Tain liked him, although Garak lived in constant danger that he would put one foot too far over the line, and receive the last punishment Tain would ever give.

“They would have replaced him. They always do.” Tain sighed, as if an over-abundance of legates were the real problem plaguing the union. “Are you going to tell me why you let an officer be assaulted by a human?”

“He was so short-sighted, he didn’t even think to ask why a human was there.” Most members of the military were narrow-minded and lacking in imagination. It made them easy to manipulate, but tedious to live amongst.

“And you did?”

Tain was daring him. If Garak had forced Tain to vouch for him without having all the answers, there would be hell to pay.

Here was where delicate maneuvering would be required, because Garak did not, in fact, have all the answers.

“He has been recruited by the Bajoran resistance.” That part had been easy to figure out. Kira Nerys was a known terrorist, at least to the Obsidian Order. They did not share their information with the military intelligence, of course. The Order was only concerned with internal affairs. Everything else was Central Command’s problem.

This Kira had approached Julian, and afterwards Julian announced that he planned to linger on the station beyond his planned week. The connection was clear.

Tain was unimpressed.

“They contacted him while on the station?”

“Yes,” Garak admitted, caught out.

“I see.” Tain looked concerned, which from him meant malice. “I’m sure you’ve tried your best to find out why he’s there, Elim. There’s no shame in failing.”

From Tain, that was a death warrant. He never expressed anger, only mild disappointment. He might say ‘ _It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have asked that of you_ ’ as he pressed the button to electrocute you into oblivion.

“I haven’t failed you.” Too sincere by far. Garak tempered it with duty. “I’ll have the answer soon.”

Garak was only ever this earnest with Tain, where it cost him the most, where it was least welcome.

Garak compiled what he knew about Julian. Quiet about his origins and past, which most likely indicated hiding from something. Human, which meant Federation ties. Possibly from Earth, although humans made colonies the way voles made nests. One blinked, and suddenly there was an infestation.

A smattering of medical education, if Julian felt confident he could diagnose a concussion. Garak was fairly certain the average human couldn’t do so without a tricorder.

Garak was no expert on human anatomy, but he had a hunch that Julian had shown speed and strength greater than what one would ordinarily expect from his species.

The answer didn’t come easily or immediately. Garak could read Federation Standard and break most encryption codes, but it took time, and one had to be creative to access closely-guarded databases without tripping security protocols.

He spent his days waiting, and watching. He observed that Julian went to the Bajoran quarter four more times, at irregular intervals. Why the guards let him past the gate, Garak wasn’t sure, although he suspected the station now believed that Julian was under Garak’s protection. He had not yet decided if he should dispel that rumor.

At the end of the week, Boheeka left, but Quark kept Julian on. The human served drinks, spun the wheel, and smiled the same nauseating smile at any indiscreet soldier who came in to leer.

(Not that Garak watched.)

They discussed _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_. Julian was full of blasphemous and ill-considered opinions, and Garak relished the resulting argument. He offered up Preloc next, and did not think about the chance to pry for more information while he did so. He wanted only to listen to Julian complain that Cardassian novels lacked authentic conflict and that literature should serve a point beyond didacticism.

At night, Garak turned on the computer terminal, and he searched.

It was one month in that Garak finally found what he was looking for.

Julian Subatoi Bashir.

Two years at the academy, then exposed as genetically enhanced. Arrested, but disappeared en route to prison.

Garak was familiar enough with that kind of report to read between the lines. Ordinarily, he would have assumed a quiet disposal. Since Julian was still very much alive, either the attempt to kill him had failed, or another agency had come in and snatched the prize.

Garak did not sleep that night, instead reading everything he could about accelerated critical neural pathway formation in humans.

Tain would know. He always knew.

Still, one could argue that Tain didn’t _have_ to always know. After all, he was not supernatural. He relied on others to give him information, whether intentionally or accidentally, and used microphones and cameras where an informant’s memory would not do.

Technology and humanoids could be fooled. The possibility did exist, however remote, that one could keep a secret from Enabran Tain.

An even more dangerous thought occurred: _so what if Tain knew?_

What use could Cardassia have for one human, even an augmented one? He posed no danger to the union, except as a semi-educated medic for terrorists. (And even then, the Bajoran Resistance was not the Obsidian Order’s problem.) If Julian remained aboard Terok Nor, to display himself in Quark’s and argue with Garak about literature, what harm would it cause?

Perhaps Tain did not have to be informed. He might still find out, but perhaps he would simply clutch the knowledge and use it to needle Garak later. Unpleasant, but not the worst possible outcome. Garak was accustomed to disappointing Tain.

Such thoughts were tantamount to betrayal. Yet still they spun around Garak’s head, an endless cycle. _What if, what if, what if…_


	6. Business As Usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What passes for normal on Terok Nor

Doctoring the Bajoran community on Terok Nor required a knack for trading as much as any medical knowledge.

Julian had listened to Kira and asked careful questions, assessing the priorities. Many intimate couples and single women who had caught the eyes of overseers were concerned about children. Hartla, as the primary provider of what Quark slimily called ‘companionship,’ had nearly unlimited access to contraceptives. She supplied Julian (who in turn supplied the Bajorans) in exchange for covering a few of her shifts.

He couldn’t prevent wounds, but he could prevent infection from setting in. He bartered with Garak for a few bolts of Denobulan cotton and a Trill fabric known for antimicrobial properties. If it felt ridiculous to be dressing injuries that could have been healed by a dermal regenerator, he pushed the thought aside as unhelpful, and focused on the task at hand.

For some conditions, there was no historical substitute for modern treatment. Nutritional supplements to counteract malnutrition, hyronalin for radiation poisoning, vaccinations, and antibiotics all had to be replicated. Julian did not have access to replicators, but Quark did, with stolen security codes that allowed him to bypass pattern restrictions. He was not particularly sympathetic to the plight of the Bajorans, but he was indiscriminate when it came to making profit. Allowing Quark to use his holoimage in programs had purchased Julian more medication than any of the Bajorans had seen in their lives.

It was not what Julian had envisioned, when he decided to be a doctor and sent his application off to Starfleet Medical, but it felt even more necessary. Starfleet had an endless supply of medical officers. The Bajorans on Terok Nor had only him.

He had expected them to resent his friendship with Garak. To his surprise, Kira insisted it was necessary cover. If Julian only spent time with Bajorans, she explained, it would be far too obvious. He had to participate in Cardassian life on the station to some extent, particularly as a dabo boy, in order to avoid garnering more suspicion.

Luckily for him, literary lunches with Garak were no hardship.

“It’s not that I don’t _understand_ the point of all these books,” Julian complained one day. “It’s that I don’t _agree_ with it. There has to be life outside of service to the state.”

“That is exactly the kind of attitude that causes a society to crumble,” Garak argued. Julian scoffed.

“Don’t be dramatic. The union isn’t going to fail just because people decide they don’t want to have to sacrifice everything in order to be considered a patriot. They have the right to happy lives.”

“Who determines their rights?” Garak challenged. “Who enforces them, if not the state?”

“That’s what I’m saying, Garak! The Cardassian government doesn’t enforce your rights, and you should care more about that. Society is a contract between citizens, and if the state doesn’t serve you, why should you serve it?”

“I’ve never heard such preposterous ideas in my life. The state enables citizens to live prosperous, orderly lives, yes, but it owes me nothing. Cardassia is a higher purpose than any one individual’s comfort.”

“What if the state abandons you? What will you say then? What if it casts you aside or declares you a threat, when all you’ve done your entire life is try to serve it, to further its goals? Will you really be such a patriot then?”

The level of passion Garak brought out in him was dangerous. Secrets hovered on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spilled. _I didn’t do anything wrong!_ Julian wanted to shout. _And they tried to get rid of me, to make it seem like I had never existed. They_ _wanted to use me to do terrible things._ _They betrayed me, not the other way around_.

But the words remained trapped, exile unspoken.

Julian did wonder, sometimes, if Garak knew. If the knowing look and the subtle comments meant a real and present danger, a sign that he should go back to fleeing, a life lived in motion.

Terok Nor, and the Occupation itself, would not last forever. Julian knew that (or at least hoped for it). This temporary normalcy was precarious.

Still, he found some comfort in a routine, even one that was dangerous and uncertain. He spun the dabo wheel in Quark’s and flirted with guls to find out information he could funnel back to Kira along with medical supplies, he read Cardassian literature and sparred with Garak about the nature of society, and decided that, as nervous as it made him, he had missed hearing others use his real first name.


End file.
